


Wounds

by wyntirrose



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntirrose/pseuds/wyntirrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Earth. Ratchet loses a patient while Jazz loses a friend and colleague. They'll need to work together to get through the pain they're both feeling, otherwise it will consume them both</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: This is set in Papyrus Quill's **Trust Issues** Special Ops Trine universe. Special thanks go out to her for not only letting me play in her sandbox, but also for helping me out with the bunny that spawned the idea!

_"Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break."_

 _\- William Shakespeare_

 

\---

 

Ratchet cleared his vents in frustration and tossed the volt-charger onto a nearby table.

"All right that's it," he sighed. "All of you pull back. I'm calling."

Two of the interns who had been working feverishly on the patient looked up at Ratchet questioningly and then pulled back without a word, moving away to deal with other patients. A young student, barely an intern, stood her ground however and looked up at Ratchet defiantly, her small hands balled into fists at her sides. It would have been humorous - Widget coming barely up to Ratchet's chest, staring him down like she was a Guardian Robot – had the situation not been so grim.

"Sir!" she protested vehemently. "You can't just-"

"I can and I have," Ratchet replied, cutting her off with a sharp wave of his hand. "He's spark-dead. There's nothing more we can do."

"But couldn't we-"

"No!" Ratchet snapped. "There is nothing more we can do!"

Seeing the hurt look in Widget's optics he turned back to the still form on the table.

"There's nothing more we can do," he said softly. "We've done it all and we have other patients who need our attention. … Time of deactivation; 13:20 joors."

Widget bowed her head at the pronouncement, but didn't protest any more.

"Widget." Ratchet lifted her chin and bent slightly to look her in the optics. "It's hard. Primus knows it kills me every single time. But we did out best. We just have to accept that sometimes our best isn't good enough."

Widget simply nodded before turning away to help with the rest of the injuries, all of which were, thankfully, minor. Ratchet watched her go, lamenting the fact that one as young as she should be thrust into this situation. Her crosses were barely dry and she was already presiding over the mortally wounded.

"Do you want to tell him or shall I?" came a soft voice from just behind Ratchet, drawing him away from his thoughts.

He turned and looked at the young 2IC. There was a surprising amount of compassion in Prowl's voice, considering his normally stoic and cold demeanour. He was offering an out; offering Ratchet a chance to avoid telling the dead mech's commander that he had failed. Failed to do his job. Failed to live up to expectations. Failed to keep one very small, very young mech alive.

"No," Ratchet replied, shaking his head. "No. I'm CMO. It's my responsibility."

"Of course," Prowl replied simply, suddenly once again the cold-sparked officer. "You will find him in the hall. He has not moved since he brought Radial in."

"Right," Ratchet sighed. He always hated this part of the job. More so when the patient was so very young and the outcome was so very obvious.

"And Ratchet," Prowl said as the medic reached the door. "He has not refuelled since he arrived. As that was nearly 28 joors ago, please see that he does so."

Ratchet's hands clenched and he bit back an angry retort. Getting into a fight with a senior officer and potentially getting sent to the brig wouldn't help anyone. So he simply nodded, handed over his authority to First Response, and logged off duty. He knew he would need a drink after this and he wasn't planning on returning to work after he informed Radial's commander of his fate.

He stepped out in the hall and was surprised by how quiet it was. Save for one mech, the hall was completely deserted. As Ratchet approached, the black and white mech looked up hopefully, then, seeing the sorrow in Ratchet's optics, seemed to collapse in on himself.

"Jazz, I-," Ratchet began only to be cut off before he had the chance to speak.

"Radial didn't make it, did he?" Jazz asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry, but no," Ratchet replied, trying to remain as professional as possible. "We attempted to stabilize him, but unfortunately his processor and spark chamber had sustained too much damage. We did everything mechanically possible, but it wasn't enough. … If it's any consolation, I don't think he felt any pain."

Jazz just looked down at his hands, completely unresponsive, as if he hadn't heard a thing.

"I didn't train him enough," Jazz whispered in a voice so soft that Ratchet had to strain to hear it. "He was too young for this. Too inexperienced."

Ratchet sat down beside Jazz, coming close to touching him, but keeping a professional distance.

"Jazz, I'm sure you did everything you could. From what I gathered, there was no way you could have prepared him for … for what happened."

"No offence, Doc, but you don't know what you're talking about," Jazz said with a bitter smile.

"No, I ... I suppose I don't."

"Can I see Radial? Collect his body?" Jazz asked as he stood and started to walk toward the medbay proper without waiting for Ratchet's permission or confirmation.

"Of course. But I think you should wait a bit first. Get some fuel. I'll make sure that Radial is made ready for you to claim him," Ratchet replied as he quickly imposed himself between the med bay and the Special Ops captain.

"I'll take him now." Jazz slipped past the large CMO easily and strode into the bay.

Ratchet followed, tempted to argue the point, but quickly realized he would lose any discussion he had with this mech. Radial was where he had been left. None of the other medics had gotten around to cleaning him up, and his body still bore the signs of their lifesaving efforts and the damage incurred by the explosion that had caused his death. His chest was open, his spark chamber dark and empty. Jazz stood by the table and looked down as Radial, showing no emotion save for clenching and unclenching of his left fist.

"Jazz," Ratchet began, coming to stand behind the mech. "We can clean him up; prepare him for whatever … interment you would like. But – uhm – I don't mean to sound insensitive, but another option would be to allow us to-"

"No," Jazz growled, never turning around. It was the first real sign of emotion that he had shown since he had received the news. "Get him prepared. I'm taking him out of here."

Ratchet just nodded. He might have considered pressing the issue, but he got the distinct impression that if he did Jazz would hand him his head.

"All right," he replied. "It'll take a bit of time, but he can be ready by moons' rise tomorrow."

Jazz pursed his lips, his hands clenching again almost spasmodically. He reached out to stroke Radial's face gently. For the briefest of moments, Ratchet thought he saw through the inscrutable visor to the pain below. But then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

"Fine," Jazz said, a cold edge to his tone. "If you can't get him ready any sooner. I'll wait."

Turning on his heel, Jazz left the medbay proper and sat in a reception chair just outside.

"This is unbelievable," Ratchet muttered as he shook his head. "First Response, come here please," he ordered, turning to his second.

"Sir?" the medic replied as he stepped up to his commander, wiping fluids off his hands with a cloth.

"I need you to clean up Radial," he ordered. "Get him ready for whatever processing his commander decides on."

"Sure thing," First Response replied, turning to the deactivated mech. "Most of his parts are still functional. Am I harvesting all of them or just the ones we-"

The words were barely out of his mouth when he was tackled by Jazz and slammed into a nearby wall.

"YOU WILL _NOT_ TOUCH HIM!" Jazz roared as he hit First Response in the chest, sending a harsh vibration into the medic's spark casing.

First Response cried out in pain, his vocalizer emitting a scream of static as he clawed at the hand Jazz had wrapped around his throat.

"Jazz!" Ratchet yelled, grabbing the Special Ops captain by the arm and yanking him back.

Without pausing at all, Jazz dropped First Response and spun on Ratchet. Black hands reached up to grab the cables in Ratchet's neck, but the lack of recharge and fuel slowed Jazz's reflexes, and the CMO was able to twist out of the way. Red fingers dug into the joint connecting Jazz's neck and shoulder, twisting the wires within painfully. With an incredible show of self control Jazz grabbed Ratchet's wrist and dug his fingers into the sensitive metal. Swallowing a gasp of pain, Ratchet used his greater bulk to slam Jazz against the wall. With a deft movement, he grabbed a cable in Jazz's neck and applied a slight pressure.

"I know more than enough ways to disable you Jazz," Ratchet growled, his face bare inches from the captain's. "Now _stand down_!"

Jazz's visor flickered slightly and he looked up at Ratchet as if suddenly becoming aware of the situation. Slowly and obviously, he released Ratchet's wrist and brought his hands up in surrender.

"I apologize. That was completely unprofessional," he said, looking at both Ratchet and First Response.

Ratchet continued to hold the captain for a moment longer, assessing the situation quickly, before releasing him and helping him to stabilize on his feet.

"I think you need to leave," Ratchet said solemnly. "First Response, when you're done with the rest of the patients, prepare Radial for interment. I want him shown all respect."

"Sir! Yes sir!" the junior medic replied promptly, never taking his eyes off of Jazz or coming within arm's reach.

"Thank you," Jazz replied stiffly. "If you'll excuse me. I'll be back tomorrow at moons' rise to collect Radial's body."

He then executed a perfect military turn and walked out of the medbay.

Ratchet watched him for a moment before clearing his vents loudly.

"Response, you're in charge. I'm off shift," he said as he walked out of the bay. Unless it's urgent – and I do mean urgent – I am not to be disturbed. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!" First Response replied quickly.

After taking a moment to ensure that his second had everything in hand, he turned and quickly followed Jazz out into the hall.

"Jazz, hold up," he called. "I need to speak with you."

Jazz slowed but didn't stop. He never acknowledged the medic's approach, but Ratchet took his new pace as a go ahead.

"Jazz. You need to speak with someone," he said firmly.

"I'm fine," Jazz replied tightly, never stopping.

Ratchet reached out and grabbed Jazz's arm, pulling him to a stop.

"Don't give me that slag. You and I both know you're not fine!"

Jazz looked down at Ratchet's hand pointedly and the medic released his grip.

"Look," Ratchet said. "You've been up for Primus knows how long, you're exhausted, and you're under-fuelled."

"I said I'm fine," Jazz replied tightly. He turned on his heel and stalked quickly away from the CMO.

"If that was the case I wouldn't have gotten the jump on you back there!" Ratchet said loudly.

Jazz suddenly stopped and turned to face the medic slowly. His visor was pale with anger and for a moment, Ratchet thought that his gamble had just blown up in his face. He stood his ground, pulling himself up to his full height as Jazz walked back to him. He braced himself for an attack, but wasn't about to give Jazz the satisfaction of knowing just how much the situation was unnerving him.

"And I suppose you think that you're the one I should talk to?" Jazz asked coldly.

"I'm here. I'd consider anything you said Privilege. And unlike the staff psychologists, I'm not required to report any of this to Prime," Ratchet replied, stiffly, still expecting the blow.

"What makes you think that you'd understand?"

Ratchet's optics narrowed dangerously. "What makes me think I'd understand? Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that I spend all my time fixing the sparklings you Autobots are sending out into the field every day? Maybe the fact that I've seen more death since I joined up than I ever knew was possible? I am programmed to save lives and yet all I do is patch up mechs so that they can end up back in my med bay again and again and again! Believe it or not, Jazz, you do not have a monopoly on grief."

Jazz pulled back sharply, then, he cocked his head to the side and looked up at Ratchet. The CMO fought back the urge to step out of reach – It was obvious in this moment, just why Jazz was the commander of Special Ops.

"Even if I wanted to talk to you, Ratchet, you don't even come close to having the clearance," Jazz said coldly.

"So?" Ratchet shot back, throwing his arms wide in exasperation. "Who said anything about sharing military secrets? I'm just talking about _talking_! You can't hold it all in! You need to get away from work and deal with this!"

"And I supposed that your method of dealing with it is what you'd suggest? Maybe I should go out and get overcharged at every opportunity until my best friend has to come drag me home?"

Ratchet looked as if he had been slapped. For a moment he just stood there, his mouth agape and his optics wide. Then with a sharp shake of his head he turned on his heel and walked away.

"Fine," he called back. "You want to wallow in self-pity then go right ahead. Dissolve in it for all I care."

He turned a corner and was quickly out of site, leaving Jazz alone in the corridor with his anger.

Bunching his jaw angrily Jazz stalked off to his quarters to wait until moons' rise.


	2. Chapter 2

_"How small and selfish is sorrow. But it bangs one about until one is senseless." – Elizabeth, the Queen Mother_

\---

Ratchet stormed into his quarters and locked the door behind him. There was something unsatisfying about the way the door slid so silently. He wanted to throw something, break something, do anything to get this anger out! There was just something about Jazz that brought out the worst in him. Between him and Prowl, he didn't know which he hated more at the moment.

He stalked the very short length of his, thankfully, single quarters, clenching and unclenching his fists, and trying very hard not to break something. He didn't understand why he was having this reaction to the captain. It wasn't like he had been the first commander to react this badly to the death of one of his troops. And this certainly wasn't the first time a fight had broken out in the med bay. No, it wasn't the situation; there was something about Jazz that set him on edge. But at the same time, he had been unaccountably disappointed when he couldn't convince him to go get a drink.

He sat heavily on the edge of his berth and looked over at the cabinet where he stored his high grade. It was tempting. It certainly wouldn't be the first night he'd used overcharging as a release, as a way to forget until he could throw himself into his work again. But tonight Jazz's words played back in his processor again and again.

 _"And I supposed that your method of dealing with it is what you'd suggest? Maybe I should go out and get overcharged at every opportunity until my best friend has to come drag me home?"_

Those words, the accusation, had stung worse than any Decepticon-inflicted wound. Jazz had no idea what it was like to be a combat medic. Ratchet had known several in his lifetime and so many of them ended up insane or dead. A medic's programming just didn't allow for what they were required to do. The fact that their main duty was to fix soldiers just enough to get them back onto the field where they could be killed was too much for most of them to take.

So what if he turned to high grade to get him through the off-shift time. It wasn't as if he had ever allowed it to interfere with his job, and it wasn't as if he was allowing it to become self-destructive. Besides, it wasn't as if he had any other source of release. Wheeljack was his friend but couldn't fully understand and speaking with the staff psychologists was out of the question. If any of them decided that Ratchet was psychologically unsuited to the job, he'd be removed from it. And the only thing worse than being a combat medic in this war, was not being one. He was far too compassionate a mech to sit back and do nothing, and so he did a job that killed him a little every day and became overcharged far more often than was healthy.

He lay back on the berth, clearing his vents loudly as he fought the urge to break into the high grade. His darkening thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door, so quiet he thought he might have imagined it.

"Who is it?" he asked snappishly.

"Uhm, it's me, sir. Widget?" came a soft voice from the other side of the door.

Ratchet looked at the door in confusion, but stood and unlocked it. It slid aside silently revealing Widget waiting patiently on the other side.

"Sir?" she said in that small voice of hers. "I thought that maybe you needed to talk. I thought that since I was off shift that maybe you and I could possibly go get some fuel? … I mean, since you need it and I need it and … uhm, yeah."

The hopeful, nervous look in her optics was endearing and Ratchet couldn't help but smile.

"That sounds like a good idea. Primus knows I could use the company," he replied, ignoring the nagging voice of doubt that was speaking in the back of his processor. "The commissary should be quiet at the time of shift."

The smile that lit up Widget's face was bright enough to illuminate the hallway. That little voice reminded him that this wasn't going to end well. He ignored it.

\---

Jazz waited until Ratchet was out of sight before turning on his heel and walking quickly toward the commissary. He should have been heading to his quarters, but he and Ratchet were roomed too close together, and the last thing he needed was to run into the CMO again. He shouldn't have attacked that junior medic, and he certainly shouldn't have gone after Ratchet, but with everything that had happened, it was like he had been possessed by someone else.

Normally he didn't allow things to get to him, didn't allow his emotions to get the better of him, but Ratchet just set him on edge. The fact that he had even suggested that Radial be used for parts was unforgivable. His hands clenched at his sides, betraying his emotions, and he noticed that nearby mechs were starting to shoot him concerned looks. This was not the happy-go-lucky Jazz they had come to expect. Slowing his pace, he calmed himself, running through several relaxation protocols before continuing to make his way to the commissary.

It was just so hard to keep up this balance sometimes; as much as he needed to keep Ops separate from the rest of his life, he also needed to balance them, and it was a delicate thing to manage. There were many an Ops agent who couldn't keep it together and lost it completely. Sometimes he wished he could join them, just say frag it all and go ballistic on everyone. Primus knew it would provide release, but at the same time, it would impede his ability to do his job – and it would dishonour the memories of all those who had come before him. It was a battle he was finding harder and harder to fight, and the events in the medbay just set him back quite a bit. Thankfully he'd be able to avoid Ratchet and the other medics for a while and get his processor together.

He stepped into the commissary and made his way to the dispenser, greeting other mechs cheerfully as he went. A little fuel and a little rest would help him feel like a new mech.

"Hey there, Sideswipe!" Jazz said happily, slapping the big red mech on the shoulder as he passed. "How's it going?"

"Hey there Jazz, my mech!" Sideswipe pulled an extra chair over and motioned to it. "Come on and join us! Sunstreaker and I were just –"

"We were just about to leave, remember?" Sunstreaker said pointedly.

"No we weren't!" Sideswipe protested.

Seeing the fight that was about to break out, and not wanting to be a part of it, Jazz took the diplomatic way out.

"I'd love to join you guys, but it's been a long day," he said, flashing a dazzling smile. "I'm just gonna grab my rations and head off to my berth. Maybe next time though. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Sideswipe replied, doing a very good job of hiding his disappointment, while his brother made no attempt at all to hide his relief.

Jazz chuckled to himself as he made his way up to the dispenser and grabbed a cube of energon. Leave it to those twins to make his day a little brighter, even without trying. It was a pity that Sunstreaker was so aggressive towards him all the time. He was a fine piece of mech and if the rumours were anything to go by, quite talented as well. Not that he's say no to Sideswipe either. It'd be an easy way to get the release he needed, and it wasn't like either of them would form a lasting bond with him. That wasn't their style and everyone knew it. The thought of taking both toughlines to the berth tonight was almost overwhelmingly tempting, and it wasn't like he couldn't win Sunstreaker over if he really wanted to.

With the decision made he strolled back to the twins' table, fully intending to pour on the charm when a familiar voice caught his audio.

"You're a sweet femme, Widget. I really admire you and I think that with the proper guidance, you could really go far in the field."

Jazz turned around and saw Ratchet and the young medic from the repair bay. They were seated, heads bowed close together, speaking in low, almost husky voices. Ratchet held her hands tightly and she was looking up at him with trust in her rapidly darkening optics.

Jazz pursed his lips and bit back a growl as he stalked forward. Moving up silently behind the large CMO, he dropped his hands heavily on Ratchet's shoulders, squeezing them with just enough power to make it noticeable.

"What do you think you're doing?" Jazz growled.

"What the frag?" Ratchet tried to turn in his chair but was held in place by Jazz.

"I asked you what you thought you were doing? She's your student for Primus' sake!" Jazz hissed into Ratchet's audio. "I thought you were supposed to have ethics!"

"Jazz, let me go!" the medic ordered, twisting again in his chair in an attempt to stand.

By this point, the few people in the commissary saw the altercation and had turned to watch. It wasn't often that they saw the officers disagree and this was shaping up to be a full out fight.

"No! You're not supposed to be … consorting with your staff and certainly not with your students."

"We were talking, Jazz. Now let me go!"

Using all of his bulk, Ratchet heaved up and broke Jazz's hold on him. Knocking the chair away, he spun on the Special Ops Captain and bore down on him, using sheer size to intimidate. But Jazz was not one who was easily intimidated. And with the newly found rage building up in him again, and a ready target, he wasn't about to back down.

"She's a sparkling! And you're taking advantage of her!" Jazz bit out.

"How dare you question my ethics! How dare you question my integrity!" Ratchet spat.

"Ethics? Integrity? From what I'm seeing, ethics and integrity was not what was on your mind! Cables and berths maybe, but not ethics and integrity!

"We. Were. Talking!" He punctuated each word with a hard poke to Jazz's shoulder. "Now _back off_!"

"Right. Sure you were," Jazz replied, sarcasm dripping from every word. "And you weren't planning on harvesting out Radial, and you weren't planning on-"

Jazz got no further. With a strength borne from righteous anger, Ratchet hauled off and hit the captain square in the jaw, causing his head to snap back and knocking his visor askew.

Jazz quickly readjusted his visor, but not before the nearest mechs saw his optics, icy blue to the point of white with grief. With a snarl he threw himself at Ratchet, only to be grabbed by Sunstreaker and pulled back away from the medic. Ratchet took an angry step forward, only to be stopped by Sideswipe as the red toughline imposed himself between him and Jazz.

"I know you can disable me about six million ways, but not before I beat the slag out of you," Sideswipe said in a surprisingly calm voice as he placed a hand on Ratchet's chest.

"What is going on here?" Prowl demanded as he stepped into the room. "I did not just hear you threaten a superior officer, did I Sideswipe?"

Sunstreaker quickly let go of Jazz and Sideswipe stepped away from Ratchet.

"No sir!" Sideswipe replied firmly. "It's not what it looks like."

"Oh really?" Prowl replied, unimpressed.

"It isn't," Springer said, stepping forward from the far doorway. "This is all Ratchet and Jazz' doing. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were just trying to stop an escalating fistfight."

Prowl looked at Springer for a moment before turning his attention to the CMO and Special Ops captain.

"Would either of you care to explain what happened here?" he asked coolly.

"Just a misunderstanding," Ratchet replied.

"A discussion," Jazz added.

"A discussion that turned into a near fistfight?" Prowl asked.

"It wasn't that bad. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get some recharge. I'm on shift in a few joors," Ratchet said, stepping forward to brush past Prowl and out of the commissary.

"I do not think so, Ratchet," Prowl replied, holding up one hand. "You two are senior officers now. I need you to set an example. Getting into near fistfights over a misunderstanding is not the example I want to see set."

"It won't happen again, Prowl," Jazz said. "No worries on that count."

"You are correct. It will not happen again. I do not have the authority to punish you for this breach, but I can, and will, relieve you of your duties and place you in the brig until such time as this can be brought before Prime."

Jazz and Ratchet just stared at Prowl as if he was out of his processor.

"You can't do that!" Ratchet protested.

"I can and I have," Prowl replied. "As of this moment you are under arrest pending a further investigation. While I am not laying charges I will be placing you in protective custody. I trust that I will not have to use restraints to get you to the brig?"

Both mechs simply nodded, dumfounded at the decision.

"Good. I know full well that restraints will not hold you, Jazz. And I have every reason to believe that you would be just as adept at escaping them, Ratchet. I was hoping that I could avoid more drastic measures."

Prowl motioned toward the door and encouraged the two mechs to leave, guiding them toward the brig solemnly.


	3. Chapter 3

_"If, there is a load, you have to bear, that you can't carry,_

 _I'm right up the road, I'll share your load, if you just call me."_

 _\- Bill Withers_

\---

Ratchet strode into the brig, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth compressed into a thin line. He turned and glared at Prowl, radiating a barely contained fury – his body was practically vibrating with it. Jazz was far more relaxed about the whole thing. He sauntered into his cell like he was walking into his quarters and lay back on the berth, completely relaxed and totally unconcerned about the situation.

Prowl locked the cells and levelled a steely gaze at the mechs inside, remaining silent for a long time. Any other mechs would have withered under that stare but Ratchet just glared back and Jazz ignored him completely.

"I do not know what has gotten into the two of you, but it ends right now," Prowl said.

His tone was still calm and cold, but both Ratchet and Jazz recognized the signs that he was furious. The slight twitch of his hand against his thigh, the steely blue of his optics, the sharp angle of his wings. They all spoke of a deep and controlled anger.

"Do either of you have anything to say for yourselves?" he asked.

When neither prisoner responded Prowl's lips thinned almost imperceptibly.

"Fine," he said. "You can stay here until such time as Prime has had the opportunity to review this case. It should be no more than twenty-eight joors."

He turned and began to walk from the room at a measured pace. As he reached the door he paused and turned back slightly.

"Just so you know, I had expected better from the two of you," he said and walked out the door, closing it behind him firmly.

Ratchet stared at the door for a bit longer before revving his engine loudly enough to make the berth on which Jazz lay shake slightly.

"Will you shut up?" Jazz protested.

"No! We are in here because of your attitude problem. I think I am fully within my rights to make a little noise!" Ratchet spat out as he began to pace the small cell. "Two blasted orns! I need to be in my med bay and instead I'm stuck here for two orns because you can't control yourself!"

Ratchet made a few more rounds of the cell before turning to face Jazz again.

"If you didn't have this slagging chip on your shoulder we wouldn't be here!" he growled as he continued to pace.

He reached the door and looked out glaring at the controls as if he could deactivate the energy bars with his rage alone. When that didn't work he turned back to pacing. The more he moved, the angrier he became, and the louder his engine growled.

"You are just so completely determined to make everyone just as miserable as you are! I was just talking to Widget and you had to go and ruin my evening just because you can't keep out of anyone's business!"

He reached the far wall again and hit it angrily with an open hand, wincing slightly as a sharp pain shot up his arm. Balling his hand into a fist he turned on Jazz again. He was completely oblivious to the fact that the captain hadn't said anything.

"You think you're so high and mighty because you're head of Special Ops! Well I hate to break it to you, but you're just another mech and you have no right to interfere with my life or look down on me! How I choose to deal with things is my own concern. Not yours!

He turned away and began to pace again, far too strung out on anger to sit still.

"And considering that you can't even deal with your our problems you have no right to tell me how to deal with mine! … I offered to help you and you threw it back in my face! If you had just talked to someone – anyone – we wouldn't be in the brig right now! But you are just too fragging proud to –"

He broke off as his gaze swept over the saboteur's cell. Jazz hadn't moved a piston since he'd entered the cell. He had covered his face with his hands and his engine was running several revolutions too slow for his model-type. It wasn't recharge, Ratchet would have recognized that instantly. This was something else, something wrong. It wasn't until he peered into the slightly darkened cell that Ratchet realized Jazz had pushed his visor onto his helm and was kneading his optics rhythmically.

"Hey! Don't do that!" Ratchet protested. "You're going to damage your lenses if you keep that up. And I have no desire to grind new ones. Do you have any idea how specialized those are?"

Jazz didn't respond. Ratchet felt his anger begin to drain, replaced with concern over the well-being of a fellow mech.

"Jazz?" he asked softly as he moved in as close as the bars separating their cells would allow. "Jazz are you okay? Talk to me."

"Nothing to talk about," Jazz replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't give me that," Ratchet said sternly. "You'd never risk your optics, you never take off your visor, and you're engine is running way too slow."

He touched his temple lightly and activated his medical visor.

"Now get over here and let me look at you," he ordered. "I can't see what's wrong with you all the way over there."

"There's nothing to see," Jazz said. "And there's nothing you can do to help."

"Try me," Ratchet said. He retracted his medical visor and sat at the edge of his cell's berth, still facing Jazz.

"What the frell do you think you can do to help?" Jazz asked angrily. "You can't bring Radial back. You can't make up for the fact that I screwed up. And you can't make this better!"

Ratchet looked down at his hands as he felt his own grief rise up in him again. Then, clearing his vents, he brought his emotions back under control and focused on his patient.

"No, I can't bring Radial back. But I seriously doubt that you screwed up," he said.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Jazz growled.

"Then tell me!" Ratchet replied as firmly as he could while still keeping his tone gentle. "I'm bound by my oath. I will not tell anyone what you say and there's no one who can make me, either. I keep the memories of my patients behind some heavy duty fire walls and encryptions. I take my professional ethics very seriously."

"Right," Jazz snorted. "And that's why you were trying to stroke your student back in the commissary."

"Oh not this again," Ratchet sighed, rolling his optics in aggravation. "I told you there was nothing going on beyond a professional discussion. Why is that so hard to understand?"

Jazz put his visor back in place and sat up.

"I'm Special Ops, remember? You can't keep secrets from me," he said pointedly. "Your field was spinning, your body language was screaming with barely suppressed desire, and –"

"Fine! I get it! I can't keep secrets from you," Ratchet interrupted with a sharp wave of his hand. "But you're misinterpreting what you saw."

"Oh really? Then enlighten me."

Ratchet stared up at the ceiling as he gathered his thoughts and emotions. He couldn't respond harshly, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Yes, I was contemplating taking advantage of my position and Widget's obvious crush on me. It would have been a pit of an easier way to deal with what I'm feeling right now," he said grimly. "I blame it on a momentary lapse in my processing speed brought on by having to deal with far too much over the last few days. And I'll admit I blame it a little on you."

"Why me?" Jazz asked, irritation coming though clearly in his voice.

"Because you were right," Ratchet grumbled. "I do use high grade as an escape. It doesn't help in the long run. But it does help me to forget when I need to. I don't have whole a lot of releases open to me. After all, a sketchy medic is probably about as useful as a sketchy Ops agent."

Jazz just looked at Ratchet, his face completely impassive, his optic band revealing nothing. He could have been Prowl for all the emotion he showed.

"Anyway," Ratchet continued, shaking off the uncomfortable feeling that Jazz was causing, "I was contemplating taking Widget up on her offer, but I had come to my senses by the time we reached the commissary. What you saw was me letting her down gently and trying to convince her to take a transfer to central Iacon."

Jazz looked away, clearly unimpressed.

"Look. I'm not going to start this argument again. I told you want happened. Widget is a brilliant diagnostician but only passable as a field medic. She gets too emotionally invested to be wearing these targets," Ratchet said motioning to the crosses on his shoulders. "She's going to get herself killed. At least in central Iacon she stands a chance at surviving all this."

"Sounds to me like you're trying to convince yourself," Jazz replied. "Guilty conscience, doc?"

Ratchet narrowed his optics but bit back his sharp retort.

"And it seems to me," he said tightly, "that you're trying to push me away. I'm offering you a release. One that's probably far safer than berthing those toughline twins."

Jazz looked at Ratchet in surprise before schooling his features to a more neutral expression. Ratchet caught the look though and allowed a smug little smile to creep onto his lips.

"Oh, you thought you were the only one who's observant?" he asked. "Like I haven't noticed the way you look at those two."

Jazz snorted indelicately and looked away. "Everyone looks at them like that. Picking up that little fact is hardly something to brag about."

"I didn't mean how everyone looks at them. I specifically mean _how_ you look at them. And more specifically how you looked at them in the commissary. You look positively predatory when you get the idea to berth someone. Or in this case someones."

Jazz made a rude noise and lay back on the berth.

"Look, we've gotten off track," Ratchet said. He lay back on his own berth, lacing his fingers behind his head. "I was trying to help you and here you've had me talking about myself."

"I haven't had you do anything. I'd be just as happy if you just shut the slag up," Jazz muttered.

"Yeah, well that's not going to happen," Ratchet replied. "You're just as bad as I am when it comes to not dealing. That much is fragging obvious."

Jazz remained silent, staring up at the ceiling. Ratchet could hear the cables in Jazz's hands tense up, a sure sign that he was clenching them tightly.

"Fine," Ratchet said finally. "Be sullen. I'm just going to keep on prodding at you until you tell me what's wrong. Like it or not, I will get into your head eventually."

Ratchet could never have anticipated the violence of the reaction he got to that simple comment.

Jazz threw himself at the bars with a roar of anger, looking as if he was planning on breaking through them to throttle the medic. Ratchet jumped off his berth with a yelp and quickly moved to the far side of his cell.

When it became obvious that the bars weren't going anywhere Jazz took a step back and glowered at Ratchet, revving his engine to a high pitched growl of fury.

"Others have tried to get in my head!" he spat out angrily. "And trust me; you couldn't handle what's in there!"

He spun away and sat at the edge of his berth, pointedly ignoring Ratchet.

Ratchet stared at Jazz's back and realization finally hit. The psych unit wouldn't have left well enough alone. They would have pried and prodded until they got into Jazz's head by any means necessary. For a mech like Jazz - for someone in Special Ops whose very survival depended on secrecy - this would have been the ultimate violation. Ratchet felt as if he had been dipped in a nitrogen bath and his anger cooled completely leaving only a deep guilt and a cold fury aimed at whoever had done this to Jazz.

"I … Jazz, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking when I spoke," Ratchet said, his tone contrite.

"Leave me alone. I'm not interested," Jazz growled.

Ratchet sat back on his own berth and watched the captain with concern. He was quickly heading toward a breakdown and it seemed that every time Ratchet tried to help, he just made matters worse. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, not saying anything, but keeping his sensors trained on Jazz. It was just so easy to forget how young he really was. And the fact that he had been captain for such a short time. He was taking Radial's death so personally. Not that Ratchet could really blame him. He hadn't been in any better a state when he'd lost his first patient.

"Jazz?" he asked quietly.

"Not interested, mech."

Ratchet paused for a moment before continuing.

"Jazz, I know it doesn't help any, but … I'm sorry for hitting you before. It was uncalled for."

Jazz merely grunted in reply.

Ratchet leaned back against the wall and waited. He'd offered the hand of friendship. All he could do now was wait.

\---

Jazz lay back on the berth and shuttered his optics. He was exhausted, his fuel was running low, and everything Ratchet did and said just irritated him to no end. He allowed his internal music distract him from his anger. It became an easier thing to do once Ratchet stopped talking. It was just too bad that the last thing he said was an apology.

They stayed silent for a long time. Jazz wanted to stay mad at the medic. It was easier to blame him than lay the blame where it belonged, which was squarely on his own shoulders. He held onto his anger at Ratchet for his attempt to get into his head, for his presumption that he had any idea what Jazz was going through. What could a medic possibly know about what was really going on in the war? How could he even begin to grasp what was really happening in that shady area between the enemy lines?

Still, he was trying to help. He couldn't possibly have known about his history with well-meaning psychiatrists and not-so-well-meaning Decepticons. He shouldn't have taken his anger out on the medic. Still, it wasn't as if Jazz had any reason to trust Ratchet, and it wasn't as if he'd had the best of experiences with the Autobots' medical staff.

His rapidly darkening mood was interrupted as the brig's main door opened to admit Prowl. The 2IC came in at a slow, measured pace, stopping in front of the cells.

"I trust there have been no more altercations?" he asked pointedly.

Jazz could feel Prowl glaring at him. He knew full well that the hidden cameras had picked up everything that had occurred, including his near attack on Ratchet. Still, he played it cool and sat up slowly, stretching luxuriously.

"Nope," he said cheerfully. "Not a single problem."

"Ratchet?" Prowl asked, turning to the medic.

"Yeah," Ratchet replied. "Everything's been fine here."

Prowl looked at him with veiled disbelief. "Is that a fact?"

"It is," Ratchet nodded. "Though there is something I need to talk with you about."

Jazz narrowed his optics and looked over at the medic. He wasn't sure where Ratchet was going with his but he was positive he wasn't going to like it.

"Go on," Prowl prompted.

"I have a confession to make, and I should have told you in the commissary," Ratchet began slowly. "Everything that happened was my fault. I attacked him and it was completely unprovoked."

It took all of Jazz's self control to not lose his composure. What Ratchet was doing made no sense at all.

"According to all the witnesses Jazz provoked the attack verbally and tried to strike you," Prowl replied, obviously not taken in by this ploy any more than Ratchet was.

Ratchet walked up the bars and crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. "Yes, but I outrank all of those witnesses and it's my word against theirs."

"You do not outrank me," Prowl replied, a faint edge to his tone.

"But you didn't witness any of it. You got to the commissary after the fact," Ratchet said.

Prowl was obviously not buying it.

"Look," Ratchet said. "I'm just going to tell Prime the same story. I realize what I did was wrong and I take full responsibility. It will not happen again. And to prove it, I'll submit to whatever punishment you deem appropriate. Just leave Jazz out of it."

Prowl pursed his lips and looked at Ratchet appraisingly. "I will have to think on this matter. I will return shortly with my decision."

He turned on his heel and left the brig, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was out of hearing range, Jazz spun on Ratchet.

"What the frag was that?" he demanded.

"I was taking responsibility for my actions," Ratchet shrugged as he sat on his berth.

"What?"

"Look," Ratchet said calmly. "You brought a concern to my attention and I reacted … poorly."

"What are you playing at?" Jazz asked, looking carefully at the CMO.

"I'm not playing at anything," Ratchet replied. "Look, Jazz, it takes two mechs to fight. I've been in the same – no a similar position to you and I should have known better than to provoke you. I don't imagine that losing your first agent was any easier for you than it was for me when I lost my first patient. … and I took that a lot worse than you're taking this."

Jazz didn't reply. There was something very wrong with this scenario. Ratchet seemed sincere, but that really didn't mean anything. There was an angle here, but he was too exhausted to see it. He began to pace the cell, glaring at Ratchet the whole time.

"You're pulling something," he growled. "I don't know what, but you are playing at something."

"Jazz you're exhausted. Why don't you lie down and rest until Prowl comes back with his decision," Ratchet said soothingly. "And then when he lets you out you have to promise me that you'll fuel up slowly. At the levels you're probably at you'll get sick if you take anything too quickly."

"No," Jazz said slowly.

"No?" Ratchet repeated. "What do you mean no? You need to-"

"I don't need to do anything!" Jazz shot back. "You're trying to make me let my guard down! I don't know if you're trying to make me lose my promotion or if you're up to something else, but whatever it is it won't work!"

Jazz felt a fog invade his processor and there was an annoying buzzing noise in his audios. His equilibrium began to protest as the room started to spin lazily. He didn't know what was going on, but he was pretty sure Ratchet had something to do with it.

As he fought the effects of what was happening to him he saw Ratchet run up to the bars, doing a good job of feigning concern.

"Prowl! Get in here!" Ratchet yelled. "Let me out! There's a medical emergency! Prowl! Get your aft in here _NOW_!"

The world suddenly tilted violently and Jazz fell offline.


	4. Chapter 4

_"He who sends the wound sends the medicine."_

 _– Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_

\---

Jazz came back online slowly, his systems activating one by one until he was fully conscious and aware. He was lying on a large berth staring up at a ceiling that didn't belong to either the brig or the med bay. He was in someone's quarters and that made no sense. Propping himself up on his elbows he looked around the room carefully. The question of the room's owners was quickly answered. There, in a nearby chair, sat Ratchet, apparently in full recharge.

He felt a pang of guilt as he realized he had been recharging in Ratchet's berth leaving the CMO in the chair. The pang became a strong twist of remorse as he remembered his actions from the day before. He owed Ratchet an apology. Actually he owed him a lot more than that, but for the moment an apology would have to do. He sat up quietly, careful not to disturb the medic and took a good look around, his curiosity getting the better of him.

It looked as if Ratchet had just moved into these quarters. It was hard to believe that he had been in here for over half a vorn already. The only signs of his permanent residence were a series of data pads, carefully arranged on a shelf; a few pots of paint and wax; a cut crystal bottle of Kalisian high grade, half-empty; and a picture cube on the desk. The cube was flashing pictures of Iacon in the early days of the war, as well as shots of Ratchet, Wheeljack, and an unknown grey and blue femme.

He stood, stretched luxuriously, and walked over to the shelf of datapads. Without touching them, he examined each carefully. Most were medical texts of various sorts, a couple were photo journals, and there were even some books of Iacon and Nova Cronum poetry. But there was one that jumped out at Jazz as odd for an officer in the Autobot army to have. From the title it seemed to be an essay questioning the validity and the true motives of the Neutral Colonization Project started by Sentinel Prime and stopped by Optimus Prime. Jazz was about to pick up the pad when he was interrupted by the sound of Ratchet moving in his chair.

"You shouldn't be up and walking."

Jazz turned to face the medic, now fully online, but still seated. A small smile quirked the corners of Jazz's mouth as he gazed down at the medic.

"I'm fine, doc," he replied lightly.

"That's for me to decide, not you. I'm the medic, you're the saboteur. You don't see me weighing in with opinions on whatever it is that you do. Now sit," Ratchet ordered, pointing to the berth.

"All right! Sure thing, doc," Jazz laughed, holding his hands up in defeat as he sat back down on the berth.

Ratchet stood and winced slightly as he worked a kink out of his knee before coming to sit next to Jazz on the berth. He activated his medical visor and began to examine the saboteur carefully. Gentle fingers moved over Jazz's frame as Ratchet tested his responses, his processing time, and his energy levels.

Jazz allowed himself to be studied, to relax into the sensations of Ratchet's hands moving across his body. The medic really was quite gentle, skilled, and professional, but he still got the gears working in Jazz's mind. As well as he was feeling now, he still needed to find that release to get back into balance. And judging by the rumours he'd heard and the sensations that were being caused by this most innocent of examination, Jazz figured that Ratchet might be just the mech to help him out.

Ratchet finally pulled away and stood. Outwardly he was calm but Jazz was picking up on his body language as if he had been shouting. Something about the whole situation was making Ratchet nervous but he was trying to hide it behind a brusque and professional demeanour.

"Okay," he said, a gruff edge to his tone. "You're fine. You just need a bit more fuel and rest."

"Great!" Jazz replied with a winning smile, approaching the medic with a relaxed swagger. "So I guess I should go back to the brig then?"

"No, those charges were dropped," Ratchet said, sounding suddenly nervous as he increased the space between himself and the saboteur. "It was quite obvious to Prowl after you collapsed that you weren't functioning at peak efficiency at the time. I convinced him that you couldn't he held accountable for your actions."

"That's fantastic, doc," Jazz replied, continuing to slowly move toward the medic until he no longer had anywhere to go. Jazz took Ratchet's hand in his own and raised it slightly. "How can I _ever_ thank you for all of this?" he asked with a seductive smile.

Ratchet pulled away and moved back toward his berth. He was obviously trying to act casual but his nervousness was showing. He was behaving like an innocent sparkling facing his first crush. It would have annoyed Jazz had it been anyone else, but somehow coming from Ratchet it was positively cute. Once there was a professional amount of space between them again, Ratchet cleared his vents sharply and schooled his expression and body language into something far more professional.

"I'd suggest that you find a way to deal with your problems," Ratchet said, his tone neutral. "You can't keep them bottled up like this without risking your sanity. And since you won't speak with the psych corps and you can't speak to me, you need to find some other means of venting."

"And what would you suggest I do, doc?" Jazz asked smoothly as he moved back to the berth and sat down, never taking his optics off Ratchet.

"I … Well, that would be for you to decide," Ratchet replied, stepping closer to the saboteur. "You just need to find a means that isn't self destructive."

"Isn't that a bit rich coming from you, Ratch?" Jazz asked, nodding toward the bottle of high grade. There was no recrimination in his tone, only a playful smile.

Ratchet paused and looked a bit self-conscious before nodding in agreement. "You're right, I'm not exactly the best person to give this advice. But at least I can talk to Wheeljack about it. True I can't go into details, but at least I know I can speak in the vaguest of terms. And I know he's going to be there to help me home at the end of a bender and hit me upside the head after he does. It doesn't seem to me that you even have that much."

Jazz looked down and away from Ratchet. This wasn't going as he had anticipated. Ratchet brought up too many valid points and something about him was making it difficult for Jazz to consider him a simple stroke or a one-night stand. Still, he wasn't about to let control of the situation get away from him.

He stood and approached Ratchet, laying a companionable hand on the medic's arm.

"And what would you suggest that I do, doc? I mean, in Special Ops we had our own way of dealing with the stress, but I'm not sure that that method would be appropriate here."

"Oh? And what was that method?" Ratchet asked, leaning slightly into Jazz's touch, his previous nervousness melting away. "Assuming that I have the clearance to hear about it."

Jazz looked up at the medic and smiled coyly before turning away and walking up to the bottle of high grade. Slowly and deliberately he poured two cubes and held one out to Ratchet.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked.

Ratchet arched his chevron slightly before accepting the cube.

"You're playing at something," he said cautiously.

"Me?" Jazz replied with an innocent little smile. "Whatever would give you that idea?"

"No idea," Ratchet replied slightly huskily. He took the cube, brushing Jazz's hand with two fingers as he did so.

Jazz suppressed a slight shiver as Ratchet activated the nodes in his fingers with that touch.

"So," Ratchet said innocently as he moved to sit on the edge of the berth. "You were telling me about how Special Ops deal with stress?"

"I was, wasn't I?" Jazz replied smoothly, sipping the high grade, never moving from the desk. "You know, you never did tell me why I'm in here."

"I'm sorry?" Ratchet asked, clearly thrown by the change of topic.

"Why did you bring me to your quarters?" Jazz finished his energon, licking a stray drop off his lips in a way that managed to be both seductive and perfectly innocent at the same time. He suppressed a slight grin at the sound of Ratchet's engine stuttering slightly.

"Prowl dropped the charges so I wasn't about to keep you in the brig, and considering your state of mind, I wasn't sure how you'd react if you came online in the med bay. And since I wasn't about to leave you alone, and I doubt you'd appreciate me in your quarters, this was the only place left," Ratchet replied, shrugging nonchalantly, but there was something rehearsed about the answer.

"Hmmm … It seems to me that you've practiced that answer a few times," Jazz said with a slight smile as he strolled closer to the berth, the slightest of swaggers in his strut. "And here I thought that you might've brought me here to seduce me, doc," he added with a pout as he sat down and place a hand over the medic's.

Ratchet's optics narrowed and grew darker. He tossed back the remains of his cube and levelled an almost feral glare at Jazz.

"I already told you, I take my ethics very seriously," Ratchet said, a growl creeping into his tone.

"I know you do," Jazz replied as he closed the distance between himself and the medic and placed one hand on Ratchet's thigh. "And I also know that I'm fine now. There's absolutely no reason for me to be your patient any longer."

Jazz stared into Ratchet's optics, smiling at the deep indigo they had become. He cocked his head in invitation, but made no other advance. He had made his intentions plain; the next move belonged to Ratchet.

And he didn't disappoint. Fast as lightning, he reached out and grabbed the back of Jazz's helm, pulling the saboteur into a fierce kiss. Jazz didn't even pause before leaning in and deepening the kiss passionately. He ran his hand up Ratchet's side, sending a light vibration through a transformation seam and drawing a growling moan from the medic.

Ratchet was not about to be outdone. With one hand he reached up and stroked one of Jazz's horns gently, sending a shiver through the saboteur. Breaking off the kiss, he leaned up and ran his glossa over the other horn, causing Jazz to gasp loudly.

Taking advantage of Ratchet's new position, Jazz began to stroke the medic's chest, following transformation seams and the seal of his windscreen. He patiently sought out sensitive nodes, and worked his fingers into the gaps in Ratchet's armour, mapping out every spot that caused a gasp, a moan, or a shiver.

Ratchet broke off his examination of Jazz's horns with a gasp as the captain ran his fingers over a particularly sensitive cluster of nodes. His engine revved loudly as he pushed Jazz down onto the berth and straddled his hips, effectively pinning him down. Jazz shivered at the feral look in Ratchet's optics, as the medic began to trace his headlights, his bumper, and his grill, carefully activating nodes as he went, until Jazz was writhing and whimpering under the ministrations.

The room began to hum with the sounds of their engines and the air was crackling with the energy of their fields spinning and merging together. Jazz reached up and took a firm hold of Ratchet's hips and began to send gentle vibrations into the seams as he felt himself begin to slip over the edge. Ratchet threw his head back with a deep throated growl as grabbed Jazz's shoulders firmly, sending a pulse through the joints. Jazz arched up off the berth as his field flared violently, meeting and melding with Ratchet's chaotic energy.

Ratchet leaned down and attacked Jazz's mouth with passionate, almost desperate kisses, hands moving without conscious thought over Jazz's frame. Soon his engine's deep growl was competing with the higher pitched revolutions of Jazz's, filling the room with a clashing, lusty music. Using the last of his frantic energy Ratchet gathered his field and plunged it deep into Jazz. The captain arched off the berth as he was thrown into overload, dragging the medic over the edge with him.

\---

Ratchet came back online, slowly becoming aware of a hand stroking the seals of his windscreen.

"Hmmm …," he moaned softly, reaching up to take the offending hand in his.

"Welcome back to the world of the functional," a musical voice said with a slight laugh. "It seems that you were in far more need of that than I was."

Ratchet onlined his optics and looked over at Jazz.

"…wow…" he said when he finally got his vocalizer working again. "That was just … wow."

Jazz just chuckled and pulled his hand out of Ratchet's grip.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I think I feel a bit more balanced," he said softly before sitting up in the berth.

"Hmmm … Well, I don't know about balanced, but I certainly feel more relaxed," Ratchet replied with a sleepy smile.

"You know, doc," Jazz began hesitantly, "I was thinking that maybe the two of us need a more regular outlet for our stresses."

"Oh really?" Ratchet replied, arching his chevron slightly, an amused note entering his tone.

"Well, yeah. Like you said, the Autobots have no more use for a sketched out CMO than they have for a strung out Special Ops Captain."

"True. So what are you suggesting? As if I didn't know."

Jazz got off the berth and headed toward the door, a huge grin on his face.

"Let's just call it regular therapy," he said with a laugh.

"Regular therapy. Right," Ratchet replied, his grin just as huge as Jazz's. "Okay, I think I can agree with that."

"Good. Then I'll see you around the base," Jazz said before slipping out of Ratchet's quarters.

Ratchet fell back to the berth, still exhausted from the recent exertions.

"Well with him around no one will ever accuse me of having a boring life," Ratchet said to the room before powering down and heading back into recharge.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Transformers belong to Hasbro and Takara, and are licensed to IDW and Dreamworks. My original characters are my own and any similarity between them and any existing characters from canon or fandom is purely coincidental. I claim no ownership by writing this work.


End file.
